


Hope

by imaginary_golux



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is living, and then there is being alive.  Written for Porn Battle XIII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope

Of course the person who finds him is Lovegood. Who else would it be? Potter the imbecile, Weasley the dunderhead, Granger the knowitall – none of them have the imagination or the inclination to go tramping through the forests in such an inhospitable place. And none of them, upon knocking on his door and seeing his familiar, despised face, would greet him with a cheerful, “Oh, here you are, Headmaster!”

“I am no longer Headmaster,” is all he can think of to say, and he lets her in, because it is cold and snowing out, and despite all evidence to the contrary he is not a completely heartless bastard. She plunks down on the floor by the fire, next to his huge old squashy armchair, and produces from her pack two bottles of Butterbeer. He stares at her.

“Here,” she says, and hands him one. “Never know when you’ll need a little something.” She produces chocolate, too, and when he sits down in his armchair she leans companionably against his leg and chatters on about some sort of fictional creature, Merlin only knows what, but it appears to be the explanation for why she is in the wilds at such an unpleasant time of year.

When the Butterbeer and chocolate are gone, and the fire has burnt itself to coals, she turns and looks up at him in the red light, and nods, and says, “You look much better than you did.”

He nods. He has seen himself in mirrors; he will never be handsome, but the stress and strain of too many years groveling at the Dark Lord’s feet has fallen away, and he is clean and well-fed and has not had to teach a single student in three years. He does, indeed, look much better.

She stands, and takes his hand to pull him to his feet, and says, “Where is your bed?” He is never quite sure, afterward, why he does not pull away, spit insults at her, send her cringing to the floor with harsh words. Instead, he leads her mutely to his bedroom, and watches with wide eyes and utter incomprehension as she strips.

The night is a little like a dream, except his dreams are never so pleasant. She is gentle, and he would be offended except that his experience in such matters is more than a little limited – he never did have a taste for the Dark Lord’s revels, and was always too proud for the Hogsmeade whores – and she teaches him her body with a skill in pedagogy that he never had.

She is sleek and pale beneath his fingers, and her soft sighs and moans guide him. He has always been good with his hands, precise and talented, and now he puts those skills to use to learn her quirks: what makes her laugh or cry out or shiver and whimper and moan, what makes her smile. She is a revelation, high firm breasts and legs spread wide and willingly for him, and kisses that are almost like a drug, he craves them so. He comes apart in her arms and clings to her, and somehow does not mind that she sees him so weak.

She leaves the next morning with a kiss and a smile, and a promise: next year. He closes the door behind her and leans against it, and looks at his little cabin with new eyes. Perhaps he will clean up a bit, before next year. Perhaps he will see if the village a day’s walk away would buy his potions.

As he pushes away from the door, he muses that perhaps Miss Lovegood was aptly named – except, he thinks, that her first name really ought to have been Hope.


End file.
